Its Raining, Its Pouring
by Glitchek
Summary: Jamison had never had a crush before. He had never felt the warmth in his chest or the fluttering when seeing that one special person or the stuttering that accompanied it. He had also never punched someone in the face before. Much less had he ever punched his crush in the face before. [Warnings: Blood]


It was storming outside, loud, angry thunder clapped throughout his ( _too big, too empty_ ) home. He tried to focus on the rain as it threw itself at his windows over the distinct, sharp smell of blood. A fire flickered behind him in the fireplace, occasionally crackling and catching his attention; his attention was everywhere _but_ where it should be, it seemed.

He felt bad. He felt like crying. The sharp feeling pierced the back of his eyes as he looked down at her limp body. She wasnt _dead_ , no, he just felt bad. He had a crush on her her yet she barely knew him and he had _punched her in the face_ before she even had a chance to say anything.

She was new too. New to the neighbourhood and new to _all this_. He didn't know why she was in his garden so late at night nor did he know why she was wearing a tank top and leggings (with _huge_ boots, he noted) in the middle of a storm of all things, but he would just have to ask when she awoke.

Blood trickled down her face, over her rounded cheeks to pool on his sofa below her. A part of him was glad he hadn't gotten a fabric sofa and opted for leather instead and a part of him wondered how he would explain the blood that stuck itself to her neck as it gathered in the dip below her.

Jamison had tried to remember everything his friend had told him about situations like this. Keep their head facing upwards, right? And something about elevating? With a moment of hesitation he grabbed a pillow that sat quietly at the end of the sofa near her socked feet (he had taken the time to pull her shoes off her, he wasn't sure if they would even _fit_ on his sofa) and carefully lifted up her head to place the pillow underneath.

As he did, the moonlight shone through his curtains almost too perfectly to shine on her face and show him what he had done.

Bruising had already begun to show on her plump lips, blood freckling about them and trickling down the side of her mouth and through her nose, passing over her lips but stopping as it had been smudged. Although she wasn't awake, a pained expression showed and her breathing started up, audible now as she breathed in and out, her chest rising and falling faster than it had before.

Quickly but hesitantly, he placed her head upon the pillow finally and her breathing slowed. Holding her head up obviously hurt her somehow, perhaps she could feel the metal of his prosthetic digging into her skin in whatever dream she could be having. He hoped she was having a good dream after everything that had happened.

She _didn't even realise_ it had happened too, it was all too fast. One minute she was looking up at him, mouth opened to say _something_ then the next minute she was laying on the ground, the rain soaking her more than she was before and the few bits of stray gravel digging into her skin.

Ah, the rain, he realised, she'll probably get a cold if she wasn't dried up quickly. And he needs to clean her of all that blood too.

Getting up from his kneeling position he quickly went to his bathroom, turning on the blinding white light and stepping in, hearing the _clink_ of his metal leg hitting the cold tile floor. He needs to get a wet facecloth to clean her up with. Did he even own any facecloths? Maybe his housemate did. He needs to dry her up, which means towels. Or blankets? Towels first, to dry her then blankets to warm her. He has a hotwater bottle somewhere too, he was sure.

It was late by the time he had gathered everything and he was sure she would end up with a terrible cold anyway but he did what he could to make her feel better. Throwing a few more logs onto the fireplace and absentmindedly noting it was nearly one in the morning, he held everything in his lap for a moment and looked up at her still form, fingers playing with the fraying ends of an old towel.

How would he explain what had happened in the morning? What if he didnt wake up early enough and she woke before him and was scared and just _left_?

He would have to cross the bridge when he got to it, he thought, dragging a hand through his messy hair.

It was half two in the morning as he finally decided he was done. She was dried and covered in blankets, a hotwater bottle sitting somewhere between them all, keeping her warm throughout the storm. The blood had been cleared away from her ( _pretty_ ) face and although the bruising had not gone away, he was sure she'd be thankful.

Turning to leave the room, he stopped in the doorway, looking back at the sofa. The fire was dead, now as ashes sitting silently in the hearth and the storm still raged on outside his home, the thunder sounding angrier now than ever as though it knew what he had done.

He couldn't see her due to the sofa facing away from him but he was glad he couldn't, Jamison knew he would only stay longer if her saw her again. With tiredness settling in and fatigue begging him to go to bed, he grasped the door handle, the metal clinking against the metal of his hand and the door creaking as it opened to his dark hallway.

"Goodnight, Mei."

With that, he turned and left for his own room to sleep the storm away.


End file.
